


atropos

by epilogues



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Greek Mythology, Angst, Fate, Gen, The Fates - Freeform, i don't know how to tag this just, if u like mythology you might like this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-06-07 04:00:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15210470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epilogues/pseuds/epilogues
Summary: Pete’s job is to cut the threads.





	atropos

**Author's Note:**

> uhhh so it's 4:06am ive been writing since like 1:30am so like. if theres typos or shit that doesn't make sense please drop a comment letting me know thanks
> 
> i didn't want to tag this too much bc Spoilers but there is some semi-violent content so feel free to comment or ask me on tumblr (@twinkjoe) if you have any questions about possibly triggering content!!

Pete’s job is to cut the threads. Every night, he retires to his room or his bunk and sits with his shears until the sun rises. He’s doesn’t remember what it was like before. It’s what he does. He cuts the threads.

He’s not completely sure how it works, because he doesn’t really  _ choose  _ whose thread he cuts and whose he doesn’t. Every night, Pete just lifts his shears and cuts on the imaginary dotted line that he’s somehow able to sense.

Pete doesn’t understand it at all, but he can’t help doing it. It’s his job. He cuts the threads.

* * *

 

“Shit,” Patrick says at breakfast the next day. His voice is shaky, barely there, and Andy’s by his side in an instant. 

“What is it? Are you okay?”

  
Patrick just holds his phone up for Andy to see, and then Andy’s eyes are wide. “Prince,” he explains to a confused Joe and Pete. “Passed away last night.”

“Shit,” Joe murmurs in agreement with Patrick. “That’s.. fuck, dude.”   
  
Pete can’t speak for a moment. This sort of thing has happened before, he’s woken up to news of a death or seen one on the news in the afternoon and he knows that technically, he caused it. It used to get to him, when he first let the implications of what he does sink in, but now he just firmly reminds himself that it’s not  _ him  _ that decides when or how it happens. He just… makes it happen.

But times like this are weird, because sometimes, he’ll  _ know  _ it’s someone important. Every thread is colored, of course, but some glow or sparkle or hum a little in his hands when he touches them, and that’s how he knows it’s something big. The ones that glow aren’t always celebrities, of course, and that’s when it hurts the most, if Pete’s honest. When he cuts a beautiful thread and there’s nothing on the news the next day, which must mean it’s someone important to only a few. 

(His mom’s thread was deep blue and felt like twinkling stars; he knew it was her by the warm hum when it ran through his fingertips that felt just like one of her hugs. He hadn’t been able to lift the shears until a voice, low and dangerous, whispered that Pete would die and that his mom would be sent to Hades if he didn’t cut it immediately. He cut the thread. He knew that it wasn’t possible for him to change anything, but that didn’t stop him from blaming himself for a long time.)

Prince’s thread was thin and shone with every shade of purple, whispering something that sounded suspiciously like  _ Purple Rain  _ into the silence of Pete’s bunk until he cut it with a soft sigh.

“You okay, Pete?” Joe asks, bringing him back to the present he created.

Pete nods. “Yeah, I’m just… I can’t believe he’s gone, man.”

It’s half-true. Pete’s good at half-truths; there’s not really any other way to explain to your bandmates that you don’t sleep because you have the powers of a strange being from Greek mythology and that you tend to not be surprised by most deaths because you’re the one indirectly causing them, among other things.

Joe makes a sound that’s probably agreement, and they all slowly migrate back to their respective spots on the bus to process on their own.

Patrick ends up next to Pete on the couch a few minutes later. “Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” Pete says. “You okay?”

Patrick nods, but he rests his head on Pete’s shoulder, which only happens when he’s upset. “Yeah, I’m good.”

Pete doesn’t push him, just leans over a little so his head is resting on Patrick’s and they breathe together for a moment, Patrick in grief and Pete in guilt.

It’s not that big of a deal most of the time, though. Pete’s used to his job. He’s cut the threads of people he’s known, he’s cut more threads than he can ever comprehend at this point. It’s just… what he does. Two years after the Prince incident, the guilt is almost entirely removed from the equation. Pete’s at the point where he just reminds himself that the fucking sun doesn’t feel bad when it kills people, that the ocean doesn’t get sad when people drown, that things that don’t have actual control over their actions aren’t responsible.

It… mostly works by now. This is just Pete’s job. It’s just what he does, and for the most part, he accepts that.

* * *

The original trio was Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos. Pete had learned this in one of his first frantic Google searches about the strange loom in his room and why he felt like it had always been there and how he knew what to do with it. He’d come to the conclusion that the roles were passed on at random on his own, as Google didn’t prove to be very helpful when he searched “i think im a greek fate in 2001 help.”

But more general searches were a little more helpful, and Pete learned a good amount about the original Moirai. Clotho, the spinner, was the one who actually chose the start and end of a person’s life and spun every being’s individual thread. Lachesis, the allotter, decided how much thread each person received and could influence their destiny. The third Fate, Atropos,  _ definitely  _ drew the short straw, in Pete’s opinion. Her name directly translated to “unturning,” or inevitable. She decided how death would occur for every human and cut their threads.

(Pete’s pretty sure that some of the responsibilities have gotten lost in translation, because if it was up to him, he would give everyone a peaceful death, but that’s… not the case, obviously. He does try to send thoughts of gentle sleep and the like while he works, but that’s yet to show concrete results.)

The Fates were enormously powerful in Greek mythology. Not even Zeus, king of the gods, could alter their decisions. They existed in many other cultures as well, in many different forms. Pete finds this part pretty sweet, actually. It’s crazy to think that he’s part of something spanning so much history in so many places, even if he’s just dismissed as myth nowadays.

Despite all of his research, however, Pete still has countless questions about the Fates and how he fits into his role. Will he cut his own thread one day? Or will some entity like the one that spoke to him when he cut his mother’s thread do it for him? Will he be doing this for the rest of his life? Will he ever meet the other two? Does he  _ know  _ the other two? How much power do they actually have?

And, most pressingly, after the rush has died down and Pete’s just sitting with his face in his hands in the ER,  _ why didn’t they stop that fucking car? _

No one actually saw the car until it was too late. One second, Patrick was halfway across the street, returning to the bus after stopping to get fucking water bottles for everyone, of all the fucking things, and the next he was on the ground and there was a bright red car disappearing around the bend in the road.

There was a split second where no one moved, and then Andy whipped out his phone to call 911 and it was like everyone else just jumped into action. Pete ran straight for Patrick, followed closely by Joe, and he swears his heart stopped when he saw that Patrick was unconscious.

“I can feel a pulse,” Joe said pressing his fingers to the side of Patrick’s neck. “Okay, that’s good, he’s gonna be okay, he has to be okay-”

Pete dropped to his knees next to Patrick and placed a finger next to Joe’s just so he could feel for himself that Patrick’s alive, he’s okay, he’s not going to die today because Pete would’ve  _ known _ , Pete would’ve known Patrick’s thread, so it’s going to be okay.  _ It’s going to be okay. _

“He’s gonna be okay,” Pete said, to him and Joe and whoever else is out there controlling these things. “He’s gonna be okay.”

Andy ran over a second later. “Ambulance is on its way,” he said breathlessly. “Is he…”   
  
“We got a pulse,” Joe said. “He’s - he has to be okay.”

Pete couldn’t even look away from Patrick’s closed eyes, trying to remind himself that it was going to be okay. _ Patrick’s not going to die today, he’ll be okay, it’s okay. It’s gonna be okay. _

He’s still repeating it to himself now, two hours later as he sits in the ER, asking himself a thousand impossible questions.  _ Patrick’s going to be okay.  _ The only problem is that that’s getting harder and harder to believe. There was a red stain on the pavement when Patrick was lifted onto a stretcher and the doctor’s face just kept sinking deeper and deeper into a frown until he finally ordered Pete, Joe, and Andy out to the waiting room.

Pete’s thumbing through invisible threads in the air in front of him, a habit he’s picked up, and he can’t stop himself from imagining what Patrick’s would look like. What it will look like  _ decades down the road _ , he tells himself firmly. 

He thinks it’ll be golden, probably, a golden thread for Pete’s golden ticket, for the best friend he’s ever had, and - and Pete’s choking back vomit. 

_ It’s okay,  _ he tells himself.  _ It’s okay. He’s gonna be okay. _

* * *

 

Pete, Joe, and Andy are kicked out of the hospital late that night. The doctor informs them that Patrick is stable for the time being and to try not to worry, they can come back tomorrow morning at eleven. They all take in the information numbly and don’t speak as they take a taxi back to the bus.

Pete shuts himself in his bunk almost immediately after getting back. He’ll let Andy and Joe figure out stuff like telling people and sorting out show cancellations, but meanwhile, it’s nearly midnight and Pete has work to do.

The loom, covered in threads, always appears within a few minutes of midnight, and Pete’s gotten pretty good at making sure he’s out of sight of anyone when it happens. There’s been a few close calls at parties and such that have led to some Cinderella jokes when he dashes away at midnight, but no one’s ever actually seen the thread and the shears so Pete counts it as a win. 

Sure enough, at 12:01, the loom and shears appear in Pete’s hands. He sets the loom on his lap with far more dread than usual and tries to focus on the methodical, sometimes relaxing work. There aren’t any threads that scream “I’m Patrick!” right off the bat, which Pete hopes is a good sign. The first layer of many is mostly just muted blues and greens, nothing special and Pete starts to actually breathe again.

He can hear Andy and Joe speaking in hushed voices on the other side of his bunk curtain as he works and he hopes they can’t hear the gentle  _ shick shick shick  _ of the shears. They get dangerously close to Pete’s bunk at one point and he freezes just in time to hear Joe say, “Do you want to talk to him now or wait until morning?”   
  
“Let’s just wait,” Andy says, “he’s probably asleep.”

Joe snorts a little. “That fucker doesn’t sleep, but yeah, you’re right, we’ll wait. I’m fucking exhausted.”

Their voices get a little softer as they move away from Pete’s bunk, and once he hears the creaks of Andy and Joe settling into their own bunks, Pete slowly picks up the shears again.

_ Shick. Shick. Shick.  _ The threads each disappear once they’re cut, the split ends peeling away from each other and fading out. Some push against Pete’s fingers as he lifts them to the shears, like they’re fighting to live. 

_ Shick. Shick. Shick.  _ Pete’s made it through about a fifth of the threads now. Some of them he takes two or three at a time. That’s a newer habit. He used to take each one in his hand and hold it for a second before taking that person’s life away, but with an average of 151,600 deaths every day, that got old fast. For the most part, Pete just works as fast as possible. Besides, there’s less time to think that way.

_ Shick. Shick. Shick.  _ An hour later and there’s maybe another fifth done. There’s still been no sign of a thread that could belong to Patrick, and while Pete doesn’t want to take that as a victory because what if it’s already done, that if it’s already been cut, it’s a small comfort. Pete needs as many of those as he can get now.

_ Shick. Shick. Shick.  _ There are a few threads, all in dark-hued bunch, that strain towards the shears until they’re severed. Pete hates those kinds of threads. They used to be a little too familiar to him. 

_ Shick. Shick. Shick.  _ Pete’s about halfway done now. Andy and Joe both finally seem to have fallen asleep. Pete kind of misses sleep. He still can, of course, but not at night, and it’s not the same when you don’t need it.

_ Shick. Shick. Shick.  _ Pete’s watch reads 4:42am. The sun will be coming up in an hour or so. He’s finally reaching the end of the threads, and there’s been no sign of one that might belong to Patrick.

Pete exhales in relief as he finally cuts the last thread and the loom and shears fade away. There’s no way to  _ really  _ know for sure whether Patrick is safe until midnight tonight, but Pete has a feeling he’ll be okay. He’s gonna be okay.

* * *

 

Patrick is still unconscious when Pete steps into his hospital room the next morning, flanked by Joe and Andy.

“With the way things are looking right now,” a nurse tells them, “he should wake up tomorrow. If that doesn’t happen, it should be within the week. Luckily, your friend only suffered very mild damage.”

Pete nods in relief. “Thank you,” he says. 

The nurse nods and leaves. Pete sits down next to Patrick and leans in close to his ear. “You’re gonna be okay, Trick,” Pete whispers. “You’re gonna be okay.”   


Patrick, of course, doesn’t answer, but Pete feels like the message made it through and sits back a little to let Andy and Joe talk to Patrick. Pete’s feeling a lot better than he was yesterday, because Patrick’s going to survive today, and then he’ll probably wake up tomorrow, and then Pete won’t have to worry about his thread for a good many years.

“You doing okay, Pete? You’ve been really quiet,” Andy says.

“Yeah, I’m, I feel like things are actually going to be okay now,” Pete answers. “I just… I was scared yesterday.”

Andy nods in understanding and they leave it at that.

Pete actually makes it onto Twitter that night to respond to disappointed fans who were going to attend the show that got canceled, promising that they’ll come back through wherever the fuck they are right now on their next tour and the like. 

He books a hotel for the night, two rooms, because if they’re not traveling anywhere, staying on the cramped bus is just dumb. He feels kind of bad for not offering to share a room, but it’s a lot easier for him to be alone rather than to wait for someone else to go to sleep or something before he can work.

The loom and shears appear at exactly 12:00 that night, and Pete gets to work more relaxed than he has been in a while. Patrick’s gonna be okay. He’s going to wake up tomorrow and they can get back on tour by next week.

_ Shick. Shick. Shick.  _ There seems to be less threads than usual tonight, which Pete’s happy about. He likes when there’s less; it means more people are waking up the next day and that the tomorrow’s date will be tarnished for a few less.

_ Shick. Shick. Shick.  _ There are several glittering threads tonight. None of them are golden, though, so Pete doesn’t worry too much.

_ Shick. Shick. Shick.  _ It’s 2:16am and Pete would guess that he’s about a quarter of the way through. The hotel room is completely silent save the soft snip of the shears and the gentle hum of some of the threads.

_ Shick. Shick. Shick.  _ Pete nearly has a heart attack when his fingers brush a golden thread, but its energy is completely wrong and he sags in relief. 

_ Shick. Shick. Shick.  _ 3:49am. Pete has maybe a third of the threads left. He’s resorted to cutting them in chunks again, because it’s one of those nights where he just wants to  _ not  _ do the tedious job.

_ Shick. Shick. Shick.  _ There are only a couple of threads left, some tangled together. Pete makes sure to cut those at the exact same time. He doesn’t know if that actually helps, but it makes him feel better to know that, maybe, they’ll go together. 

_ Shick. Shick. Shi-  _ There’s a golden thread. It’s one of the last ten threads on the loom, and it’s shimmering gold and soft reds and it’s humming a thousand tunes Pete’s heard a thousand times before. It’s humming Pete’s words to its own melodies, it’s humming Joe’s riffs, Andy’s fills, there’s no doubt what it is. Pete takes a deep, shuddering breath, and pretends it doesn’t exist for the brief time it takes him to cut the other remaining nine

Finally, it’s just Patrick’s thread stretched out on the loom. It doesn’t move towards or away from the shears, but it jumps a little at the touch of Pete’s hand and almost curls around his fingers. Its humming changes to a sort of greeting, and Pete  _ can’t do this.  _

It’s almost worse than his mom, because he’d been suspecting that one for a while, and she was ready to go, and Patrick… Patrick isn’t ready. He isn’t ready, and Pete’s not ready to let him go, and the  _ world  _ isn’t ready to let Patrick go.

And yet someone decided that he had to go, that he had to go now. Pete’s hyperventilating without even really being aware of it. He’s not really thinking of anything but the golden thread in his lap and the shears in his hand and the voice just entering his head telling him, “Do it. You are Atropos. If your work is not complete by sunrise, you will be killed and all remaining souls will be sent to Hades.”

Pete casts a glance to the window. Through the thin gap in the curtain, he can see a sliver of light. It’s almost sunrise.

He looks down at the thread again, running a finger along it and feeling its soft hum. 

“I’m not - I can’t - we’re -” Pete chokes out, in the vain hope that whoever’s been speaking to him can hear. He can't kill Patrick. He can't. But he can't risk him suffering forever either.

“It is your job,” the voice intones. “You are Atropos, and you will complete your work by sunrise or see yourself dead and the remaining soul sent to eternal suffering in Hades.”

The sun peeks even higher over the horizon as Pete continues to sit, motionless, eyes stuck on the thread once more.

“Atropos -” the voice begins again, louder than Pete’s ever heard it, and -

And he cuts the thread.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading! comments are really appreciated!


End file.
